


I Predict a Riot

by MelisandreStark



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: F/F, FtLoSW, Implied Cannibalism, Murder, Nothing that graphic, Nudity, a rat hole, prison au folks, shadow weaver is not okay lmao, terrible flirting, that sounds weird but eh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelisandreStark/pseuds/MelisandreStark
Summary: After a video takes the internet by storm of Shadow Weaver committing a horrific crime, Angella finds herself entangled with the case. The case seems like an easy conviction, but as she digs further around Angella might be working with more here than she thought.Meanwhile, in the prison that has become her home for the foreseeable future, Shadow Weaver is forced to acquaint herself with a jarring cellmate, Castaspella.
Relationships: Angella/Micah (She-Ra), Castaspella/Shadow Weaver | Light Spinner (She-Ra)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 82





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im so sorry for my update schedule already it's going to be terrible

It was a cold, rainy night that the video was published, and within twenty-four hours it goes completely viral.

Every news station, newspaper and magazine are covering the mystery of it, or lack thereof from some perspectives; the whole world watching with a morbid fascination.

Angella has to turn it off halfway through—it’s horrific.

In the centre of the screen sat the veiled Shadow Weaver, a woman she hasn’t ever met but has heard of often from her husband who was her student years ago, on what appears to be a kitchen floor. She’s straddling the corpse of who she now knows to be a man called Norwyn, her boss, with blood covering her hands and clothes. In the video, she proceeds to rip his arm off, and then tear of the fingers with her teeth. It looks like a scene from the goriest horror movie, so realistic and terrifying that Angella is having a very hard time believing that it’s even real.

But it _is,_ and the thought of it makes her feel slightly ill.

As shocked as she feels, Micah, who is sitting beside her after resisting watching video for the past few days—titled, _Fuck You, Norwyn_ —looks ten times worse. He looks halfway between crying and laughing hysterically.

Angella gently puts a hand on his leg. “Micah—”

“That _can’t_ be real—that’s not, she would _never—”_ A tear escapes him. “You don’t understand—I knew her _so well_ and she was rude sometimes of course, bitter, but would never hurt anyone. _Never—_ not like that, never _anything_ like that _._ This _has_ to be fake!”

According to the news, the body was found in Shadow Weaver’s residence, as was she, and the evidence incriminating her is not really debatable. It’s vile and disgusting and Angella would normally look at something like this and the promptly try and forget, but the fact that this case is so close to home makes her take a moment to think about it.

“She _couldn’t._ ” Micah insists to her, even though everything in front of them very much suggests otherwise.

From what she’s heard from Micah, which is presumably an accurate description, Angella can agree that it’s certainly strange. Shadow Weaver is—was, as is probably the case now with her arrest—a university professor and lecturer in archaeology, taught many students and did so well with impressive results, and several successful novels to her name. Her and Micah, it seems, always had a special bond and she spent a lot of time working with him personally (they still exchange letters about once a month).

So Angella takes another look at the image on the screen and frowns. “That’s…why would she post the video?”

Micah hiccups. “What?”

“She’s a clever woman, and if she hated her boss so much then why would she publish it to the world when she knows it’ll only result in her imprisonment—why would she expose herself like that?” Once she gets past the gore if the situation, Angella finds herself getting more and more confused.

“Angie…” Micah takes her hand gently in his. “I know this stuff is complicated, but I can’t stand the thought of her getting in trouble for something she didn’t—she _didn’t_ do this. I don’t know how, but she didn’t do this.” He takes a deep breath. “Could you, maybe—”

“You want me to represent her.” Angella finishes for him. It’s true that she’s the CEO of one of the biggest law firms in the country, so in his query Micah is asking her to find someone to represent Shadow Weaver on her behalf. Shadow Weaver isn’t a poor woman from all accounts so probably has someone already, but there’s not harm in offering Angella supposes—and this case has intrigued her somewhat. “Of course I will offer. I don’t know what her arrangements are right now, but I’ll offer anyway.

Micah stands and pulls her into a tight hug. “ _Thank you._ ”

She smiles. “Of course. You should get some sleep, you look exhausted.”

He pulls away and nods wearily. “I will. But you shouldn’t be up too late, either.”

“I won’t, I promise.” She nods to him while a resounding crash sounds from upstairs. Angella groans. “I’ll sort that out, too.”

“Are you sure—”

“Micah, it’s been a long day. Go to bed. I’ll sort out whatever havoc is happening upstairs.” She assures him, twirling around to head upstairs.

As expected, the noise is coming from their young daughter’s bedroom where she (who’s supposed to have been sleeping for a while now) has set up what appears to be a war zone with her seemingly millions of stuffed toys. “Ah, no, the evil witch!” The little girl cries as her mother opens the door, clutching a unicorn and an angel doll to her chest protectively.

Angella frowns. “Glimmer, you are supposed to be asleep! Get into bed, please.”

The little girl groans. “But _Mom._ I’m not tired!”

“This isn’t up for debate I’m afraid.” Angella tells her, gently prising the doll out of her hands and lifting her back over to her bed. “You need your sleep.”

“I don’t need any sleep.” She insists. “I can stay up _all_ night long and not get tired at all.”

“I’m afraid, scientifically and historically, that’s incorrect.” Angella replies wryly. She lays her daughter down and tucks her underneath her bright pink duvet and feels her expression soften. “Good night, Glimmer. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” She tickles her daughter’s sides which prompts a squeal of giggles from her daughter, who then finally agrees to lay back on her pillow. “I love you very much, my darling.”

“I love you too.” Glimmer beams and clutches her toy close to her chest.

Angella smiles and leaves the room quietly, flicking the light switch off behind her. It’s moments like this, when she’s closest to her daughter, that she realises how she would do literally anything for her family. It’s true that she spends far less time at home than she’d like with the career—Micah elected to be the stay at home parent as soon as they found out she was pregnant years ago—and it is perhaps for this reason that she, in that moment, decides that should they by chance get Shadow Weaver’s case, she will be the one taking it.

* * *

Shadow Weaver groans, burying her face in the stiff pillow on her bed.

She knew exactly what she was signing up for when she killed Norwyn—which she _did_ do, rather shamelessly from the looks of it, the reason why most people think she hasn’t asked for a lawyer—but is starting to really miss the comforts of her old home, and it’s only been a few days since she was dumped in this high profile prison.

The only plus to this is that they’ve placed her in solitary which means she doesn’t have to bother with any inane roommates (you don’t have to be clever to be in a prison like this, and she struggles to believe that the other axe murderers and arsonists around her are anywhere near her level) though her mild happiness about the solitude starts to fade when the guard opens her cell and announces: “You’re being moved, prisoner.”

She represses a snarky comment and pulls herself up without complaint, adjusting her orange top which doesn’t go with her complexion at all (before everything, she’s always favoured red) and follows the guard out to, to her dismay, gen pop. Really, she should be kept in solitary for much longer given the severity of her case—yes, she has done her research, she’s not signing herself up for a life sentence without having read up on the proceedings—but if she’d have to guess she’d say overpopulation is the reason for this premature eviction.

The prisoners in the communal area all glance up at her suspiciously as she enters the cell block with guards blocking all four sides. She refuses to be intimidated—she’s better than all these people and refuses to sink to their level—so keeps her head held high as they drop her off in her cell.

Shadow Weaver is not pleased to see a woman laid back on the bottom bunk in the room looking rather intently in a book. The new prisoner looks to her guards. “Can I please be moved to a different cell? The company in this one looks terrible.”

The woman looks up from her book with a scowl. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Get in.” The guard shoves her into the room and Shadow Weaver sighs, glancing to the toilet which is in the left corner of the room with absolutely no cover for modesty. The thought of using it with this other woman watching her makes her stomach turn—perhaps she isn’t as prepared for this as she thought. The woman shuts her book and looks Shadow Weaver up and down. “Who are you?”

Shadow Weaver raises an eyebrow at the other women, who she’s now looking at properly. She’s younger than Shadow Weaver evidently, but no so young that she’s bordering on her teenage years—if she had to hazard a guess, she’d say her new companion is in her mid to late twenties.

At this thought, she represses another urge to groan.

“You can call me Ms Weaver.”

Her new cellmate pulls a face. “I asked what your name was, not your title. What are you, some sort of teacher?”

“I was a _professor._ ” She corrects, climbing up the ladder to the top bunk. She hasn’t been in a bunk bed since she was a child and feels more than a little stupid doing so.

“Are you seriously going to make me call you Ms Weaver?” She sticks her head out from her bunk to look up properly. “And here I was thinking I we were going to be blood sisters or something. My last cellmate was so much cooler.”

Shadow Weaver rolls her eyes. “Stop talking, I’m tired.”

This comment seems to touch a nerve. “Hey, you’re not the one who makes the rules in here!” The younger woman says and stands up properly. “Keep talking to me like that and we’ll have a problem.”

Shadow Weaver’s lip curls up into a grin despite herself. “Will we, now?”

“Mhmm.” She crosses her arms. “Fuck with me and I won’t hesitate to fuck you up. You’re the one who came in here and interrupted my reading, really you should be _apologising_.”

The professor glances towards her with narrowed eyes. “I suppose the fact you were reading in the first place is a sign your intellect may not be quite as sparse as most her the people taking residence here. But clearly you can’t be that clever, or you would have realised threatening me will lead to much more trouble for you than me.”

“You don’t scare me. You’re just some old high-and-mighty snob who thinks because they’ve got qualifications, they’re more important than everyone else.” Her cellmate tells her.

“Whatever makes you feel better.” Shadow Weaver tells her. “And I suppose if we’re going to be here together for a while, I should probably ask your name too.”

“Casta.” She replies. “What’s your real name?”

She sighs. “If Ms Weaver is truly too difficult for you to say, then most people call me Shadow.”

Casta snorts. “ _Shadow?_ What are you, some sort of supervillain?”

Shadow Weaver grins uncomfortably at her and is delighted to see Casta shiver at the sight. “Only when you want me to be.”

Later, when Casta heads out of the room having gotten bored her new cellmate, Shadow Weaver climbs down and snatches the book off her bunk. She is disappointed to find that, in fact, Casta had not been reading but rather doodling some rather explicit scenes of her and what appears to be one of the female guards.

Shadow Weaver groans and shuts the book, heading back up to her bunk and burying her face in her pillow.

It’s going to be a long sentence.

* * *

It’s early on a Wednesday morning when Angella’s assistant, Netossa, knocks on her door with an expression of confusion. The CEO, who is fond her assistant, gives her a worried look. “Is everything alright?”

The other woman closes the door behind her and clears her throat. “Yeah, it’s just…we got a letter from the state about the, uh, Weaver murder. Said that we got the case but…she didn’t ask for a lawyer, she was going to be assigned one of those rubbish state ones—she’s not paying for us—”

“I know.” Angella cuts her off. “My enquiry was…personal, though I must say I’m surprised at the lack of representation.” She frowns and stands up, taking the letter from Netossa. “I wonder why…”

“So, you are going to assign someone to take the case?”

“No. I’m going to take it myself.” Angella looks over the letter which details when a meeting with her new client will next be available. “I’m going to head down to the prison myself this afternoon to meet with her.”

Netossa blinks. “Are you…sure? You haven’t taken a case in years.”

“As I said, there is an element of personal entanglement here but not enough to be a conflict of interest. And besides,” She folds the letter and tucks it in the pocket of her skirt. “Don’t you think it’s a little bizarre that a relatively wealthy woman wouldn’t get herself a competent lawyer? I have to admit that I am intrigued by the case.”

“Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” Netossa smiles at her. “But do me a favour and don’t loose yourself in the case, yeah? I’ve been here long enough to remember what you’re like once you sink your teeth into something.”

Angella smiles back. “Don’t worry about me. Realistically, my defence has no chance, but I would like to see it through. See it more as…an extra-curricular activity.”

Netossa offers her a two fingered salute and backs out of the office. The firm—named Bright Moon—has been the centre of Angella’s life since she first graduated law school what seems like forever ago, and part of running something that’s grown so much is accepting her responsibilities are somewhat beyond actual law practice but she does miss it, it’s what she initially wanted to do after all, so while the video of what happened still deeply unsettles her she can’t help but find herself a little excited to get back stuck into an actual case again.

She tries not to think about Glimmer too much—she _is_ taking the case on Micah’s behalf, but knows that Netossa is right about her loosing herself in her work sometimes. Having children had never really been part of her plan if she’s being brutally honest—or, at least, not until a little later (she’s almost forty now, admittedly, so there isn’t really a lot longer she could wait but that’s besides the point) and she does struggle to balance her time well enough to have adequate time to spend with her daughter. It’s not that she regrets having her daughter at all, she loves her more than anything else in the world and really the living situation has never been a problem since Micah gave up his own career to care for her, but sometimes she wonders if she’s sacrificing too much time with her daughter for her job—and if taking a case like this will only make it worse.

With a sigh, Angella slips back behind her desk and opens some forms she needs to sign off for accounting out in front of her. She groans internally when she can’t find a pen in her desk and leans down to fish for one in her handbag.

A pen is successfully found in her bag, along with a banana that has a smiley face poked on the side with a little note from Micah reminding her to eat breakfast. A smile escapes onto her face at the sight and she sighs contently, dropping the pen down on her desk and peeling the banana. She’s so lucky to have him—not for the first time she considers how lost she would be without their relationship.

Swallowing a big chunk of her breakfast, Angella looks down at her papers and starts to get to work.

* * *

All in all, Shadow Weaver considers as she and the other prisoners complete the obligatory laps outside in a circle, this day could have gone a lot worse.

Casta does snore but it’s no worse than others she’s slept in close quarters in with the past, so doesn’t prove to be a problem.

(Her insomnia has much deeper causes that her cellmates heavy breathing).

Her meals are taken on a table alone, for most part people have avoided her so far (the scars that plague her face and body probably have something to do with it, though as much as she tries to convince herself that they might turn out to be a good thing her mind still aches for the safety of her veil) and her jarring roommate has at least the sense to quit bothering her. Casta, it seems, has a few friends in this cell block so has other things to keep herself occupied with, that is certainly a relief.

In the afternoon, once they’re allowed, Shadow Weaver returns to her cell and resigns herself to taking a nap since that seems to be the best use of her time, but is rudely interrupted by a call of _‘VISITOR FOR WEAVER’_ through the loudspeakers which takes her by surprise.

Her court date isn’t for another few weeks and the state lawyers are useless enough not to appear until they absolutely must, so it can’t be one of those. Her chest tightens when she wonders if it might be _him—_

 _No._ No, it can’t be. But still, this all adds to the mystery of her visitor and not knowing makes her uncomfortable.

A guard comes to her cell to escort her, said guard bearing a striking resemblance to the one in Casta’s crude drawing which does amuse Shadow Weaver a little, and she steels herself for a potentially difficult encounter.

She does not expect, when she’s taken in an enclosed room past the normal visitation, is a poised woman with strawberry-blonde hair and a briefcase, who for all intents and purposes appears to be a lawyer, but surely can’t be unless her court date has been moved forward—which it also can’t have been without them telling her, right?

She blinks, looks back to the guard for an explanation which she does not deliver, and then slowly moves to take a seat opposite the stranger.

The stranger clears her throat. “My name is Angella Moon, I’m going to be acting as your defence in this case, Ms Weaver.” The woman says.

“I…my court date isn’t for a few weeks.” She finds herself almost stuttering.

The woman nods. “I know. But it’s best to get started with these things as soon as possible, and if you want any chance of a reduced sentence then we don’t have any time to waste.”

“I don’t understand.” Shadow Weaver narrows her eyes. “I _killed_ Norwyn—all the evidence is on the internet for everyone to see. Why aren’t you just setting me up for the life sentence?”

Angella looks at her curiously. “I’m not a state attorney. I’m doing this as a personal favour to my husband, who is convinced you’re innocent of this somehow.”

“And your husband is…?”

“Micah.” Shadow Weaver sucks in a breath at the sound of the name and bites her lip. She had completely forgotten that Micah’s wife was a lawyer—and never actually met her—so now wonders if this is going to be a serious problem. “Now, he’s given me what I’m going to suppose is a relatively accurate character refence of you which leaves everything about this murder very unusual to me.”

Shadow Weaver takes a breath and lets a calm façade wash over her. “I hated Norwyn. I murdered Norwyn and wanted the world to see that. What is so difficult to understand?”

“Do you want a life sentence?” Angella frowns. “Because to me it seems like you _want_ to be here. And I find it unlikely that a previously stable and clever woman would subject herself to a life in prison just like that.”

She shrugs. “Believe what you like. I’ve accepted my fate.”

Angella pulls out some papers from her notepad, seemingly deciding that that line of questioning is going nowhere. “Can you tell me a little about your husband? I have records of your marriage here about ten years ago…Horde Prime, is it?”

Shadow Weaver shifts uncomfortably. “He is a man. We are married. I’m not sure what else you want me to say.”

“Where has he been through all of this? The courts haven’t been able to contact him.”

She shrugs. “He travels a lot, was away at the time everything’s happened. We don’t talk that much.”

“And your daughters are with him?”

Shadow Weaver feels her stomach tighten at the thought of her children. Adora and Catra are seven and six respectively, and they won’t understand any of this—they’ll likely think her a monster, as, she supposes, was part of all this’ design. Her biggest regret in life is her failure to keep the safe from what she could not control, but now is not the time to review every mistake, every opportunity to do better.

She quickly banishes their faces from her mind—it will not do to have them plaguing her. “Yes.” Shadow Weaver says after a moment, and nothing else.

“Does that mean you didn’t know where they were, if you didn’t know where your husband was, throughout all of this?”

She scowls. “What are you getting at?”

The lawyer blinks innocently. “Nothing. I just think, as a mother myself, I would be deeply unsettled if my husband took my child away without specifying where or for how long.”

“Not everyone lives like you.” She retorts, wrapping her arms around herself. “Prime does as he likes, I knew that going into things.”

“Would you say you don’t have a particularly close relationship with your daughters, then?” Angella asks.

“No, of course I—I don’t see how this is relevant. I want to go back to my cell.” She stands up, alerting the guard at the door, and is annoyed to find the lawyer looking at her like she can see right through her. God, all she’s asking for is the system to screw her over like they do with everyone else, how is it fair that she got a competent lawyer?

“If that’s what you want, Ms Weaver.” Angella says. “We’ll be in touch.“


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shadow weaver gets used to her new life. angella does some digging around. casta is chaotic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got no excuses for how late this is lololol

Waking up to the sight of her cellmate petting a rat on the floor really isn’t how Shadow Weaver generally likes to start her mornings but, she considers as she sighs, she can’t really say she’s been expecting much more.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Glim.” Casta grins at the rat as she scratches the content looking creature under its chin.

Shadow Weaver pulls herself up into a sitting position and narrows her eyes at the scene before her. “Please don’t tell me you’ve named the rodent.”

“This is Glimmer II.” Casta tells her without looking up. “I named her after my niece since my bitch sister in law won’t ever bring her to visit.”

Shadow Weaver snorts. “You clearly don’t think very highly of your niece if that rat is her counterpart.”

Casta pouts, picking the rat up and glaring at her cellmate. “I’ll have you know that Glimmer II is a docile and friendly creature. And she doesn’t like it when you’re rude to her.”

“Give her my apologies, but honestly I’d rather not contract anything.” Shadow Weaver replies. “Get rid of it or I’ll squash it with my boot.”

“I’ll squash you with my boot in a minute.” Casta retorts, holding onto the rat tighter. After a minute silence where neither woman elects to move, the younger of the two lets her curiosity gets the better of her. “Why are you here?”

“Because we’re not allowed until the check is over?” As is usual, Shadow Weaver learns, routine spot checks happen once or twice a day, in which every prisoner has to return to their cell and remain there until told otherwise. The blaring sound of the search announcement had been what woke her up to see the charming rat display.

Casta rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. What did you do to end up in here?”

Shadow Weaver thinks of Norwyn’s blood on her hands, his limbs broken and limp on her kitchen floor and the cold glare of the camera that had been on her. “You’re not supposed to ask me that.”

“What, did you google the rules or something before you got here?” This coaxes a grin out of the younger woman as the rat makes a content squeak in her hands.

Shadow Weaver narrows her eyes. “Why are you here, then?”

“Arson.” Casta says, without missing a beat. “But I asked first.”

Of all the crimes she had been expecting from the other woman, Shadow Weaver can’t say arson was on the top of her list. Then again, she supposes, she could very much be lying to make herself look better. After a long moment of contemplation, Shadow Weaver finally says: “Tax evasion.”

“Bullshit.”

“Al Capone went to Alcatraz for tax evasion.”

Casta frowns. “Who now?”

Shadow Weaver sighs. “Al Capone, the famous gangster— _Scarface?”_

“ _Oh.”_ Casta says. “Yeah, I never did see that film.”

Shadow Weaver has a snarky response poised on her tongue ready to go but the guard enters the cell before she can say it. “Weaver, Oh, up!” The guard barks, and the groans. “Inmate, put the rat down!”

“Sorry, Juliet!” Casta says, bending over a little too much to set Glimmer II down, said rat scuttling back through the hole in the wall it came through. Shadow Weaver resists the urge to bash her head against her bunk when she realises this is the guard Casta was drawing pornographic sketches of. The ex-professor expects the guard to say something about her cellmate’s blasé use of her first name, but she starts going through their things without comment.

“You might consider subtlety.” Shadow Weaver murmurs, earning herself a glare from her cellmate.

“What,” Casta plants her hand on her hip. “Jealous, _Shadow?”_

Shadow Weaver scoffs, crosses her arms, and shakes her head vehemently.

* * *

Angella opened her laptop up in her office as she starts to sip on the coffee Netossa had dropped off for her not five minutes prior. She’s had meetings all morning, one of which was a little excruciating since her head of IT may or may not be on some sort of drug (Angella makes a mental note to ask Netossa why they made her head in the first place later on) but for now she has about half an hour before she needs to be on her way to see the board of directors so intends to use that to explore her personal case a little further.

Her meeting with Shadow Weaver was…interesting to say the least. From what Micah had described she had been expecting something larger than life, and it’s possible that Shadow Weaver may once have been but what she saw opposite her during her questioning was a woman beaten and broken.

Why that is she has yet to figure out but given the slight moment of hesitation upon the mention of her daughters she thinks that might be a good place to start.

It’s not to hard to find the birth records of Catra Weaver online, who is funnily enough the same age as Glimmer, but she has to do a bit more digging before she discovers the older daughter—Adora—was adopted as an infant a year before. They are seven and six respectively, young enough that most mothers would be concerned at their prolonged absence, and even though she didn’t say so the fact that Shadow Weaver dodged the question when Angella asked it tells her all she needs to know about that.

Angella stops, leaning away from her laptop and taking a long sip from her mug. She doesn’t even know why she’s putting so much work into finding out more about this when the woman clearly wants to be incarcerated, really—maybe it’s because she loves Micah and feels like she owes him this, maybe it’s because she’s been itching to get her hands on a practical case for years and isn’t prepared to let this one go too easily.

Maybe it’s because she’s still not sold on Shadow Weaver’s story at all.

She looks up Horde Prime this time and, as she has previously read, finds the remarkably squeaky clean record of Shadow Weaver’s husband—it seems he’s unemployed though, so it begs the question of how he can afford to be travelling so much with two young daughters. Perhaps all of Shadow Weaver’s cheques went to him, she supposes, but that only further complicates the whole relationship dynamic in Angella’s head.

There are no pictures online coming up under the name Horde Prime even though there is evidence that he clearly exists, and when she mentioned the name in passing to Micah last night he didn’t recognise it, though knew she was married. A husband seems like a peculiar thing to be nonchalant about.

Biting her lip, Angella picks up her desk phone and dials a familiar number—pleasantly surprised when the recipient picks up straight away. “Hello?”

“Spinnerella.” Angella leans back in her chair. “How are you?”

“Alright.” Spinnerella replies, voiced laced with good natured scepticism. “What do you want, Angie?”

Angella has known Spinnerella since she was first out of law school—she worked in government prosecution for six months before deciding it wasn’t for her and so operated in tandem with Spin who was, at the time, a detective. Now she’s got her own precinct and fortunately owes Angella a favour, so since she’s not going to be working any other cases for a long time after this she may as well cash it in now.

“Do you have anything to do with the Weaver case?” Angella asks.

“It is in my departments jurisdiction.” Spinnerella says. “Why do you ask?”

“Can you get me twenty minutes in her flat?” Angella asks.

Spinnerella sighs loudly. “Jesus, Ang, that’s gonna be hard. No ones allowed in there at all right now, not even my—”

“Please?” Angella curls her manicured fingers. “Then we’ll be even, I promise. Just twenty minutes?”

The chief pauses, presumably weighing her options before finally replying with a terse, “ _Ten_ minutes. That’s it.”

Angella grins. “Thank you. Can we make it this evening?”

“7:00. If you’re late, you don’t get extra minutes.” Spinnerella says and hangs up the phone. Strictly speaking, this kind of investigation _really_ isn’t Angella’s job at all but, well, she hasn’t really got an enormous amount to work with right now and she really has missed being in the thick of things. The lawyer puts the desk phone down and puts a reminder in her mobile for 7:00, just in time for Netossa to come in to tell her the board has assembled in the conference room.

* * *

“I have skills that would be better spent elsewhere.” Shadow Weaver says as the guard drops a thick book titled _Everything You Need to Know About Circuits_ in front of her _._ “I was—I _am_ a professor of archaeology.”

The guard squints at her. “We don’t need ‘archaeology’, we need lamps, so get reading, and fix.”

Shadow Weaver sighs and sits herself down at an empty bench. She’d like to make some sort of money since the commissary has things she may have need of later down the line, but electrical really hadn’t been what she had in mind. Still, she supposes as she flicks to contents to figure out what the fuck she supposed to do with a screwdriver and a broken lamp, it could be worse.

“Are you actually reading that thing?” She hears a gratingly familiar voice ask from the bench behind her and doesn’t deem it important enough to earn her attention so ignores it. “Just poke around in the circuits until something happens. That’s what I do, anyway.”

“And have you had much success?” Shadow Weaver replies, not looking up from the page that she’s not actually reading, since it is mind-numbingly dull.

The other woman moves around to Shadow Weaver’s bench. “You tell me.” Casta jams her screwdriver into the lamp’s switch, and nothing happens.

“Dear lord,” Shadow Weaver groans, yanking her lamp away and holding it behind her arm protectively. “Don’t you have anyone else to bother? Some of us actually just want to get on with it.”

“Jones started talking about her boyfriend and there’s nothing that bores me quite like men, so you’re the best option here.” Casta replies, cracking her knuckles. “Will you pass me that lamp back? I bet I can get it working.”

Shadow Weaver stares at her. “I’m not going to let you break it.”

“I’ve been here a lot longer than you; I know what I’m doing.” Casta says. “Pass me the lamp.”

Eyeing said lamp suspiciously, Shadow Weaver weighs her options. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter if she gives Casta her lamp or not, really, but doing so might be giving the impression she wants to further this conversation and that would be very counterproductive. She looks at her cellmate, properly with eye contact this time, and something twists inside her as she meets dark chocolate eyes, her gaze falling to dark purple lips—

Her eyes dart away, and she tries not to blush in embarrassment hoping Casta didn’t catch that. As ever, luck is not on her side, and the apparent arsonist’s grin twists into something that could only be described as evil. “See something interesting there, Weaver?”

Shadow Weaver swallows and narrows her eyes. “Just wondering how you’re allowed to wear that lipstick.”

“It’s not lipstick.” Casta tells her. “I got my lips tattooed when I was twenty, and pretty drunk. I always look goth now, so I guess I gotta commit.”

The older woman scoffs. “I don’t believe you.”

“Really?” Before Shadow Weaver knows what’s happening, Casta leans forward a plants a soft, wet kiss on her cheek. “Nothing comes off, see?”

Shadow Weaver’s eyes widen, and she rushes to wipes her cheek, letting out a feral, annoyed noise. “ _Don’t do that.”_

Casta scoffs. “Chill out. Now, are you going to give me that lamp or not, we haven’t got all day?”

With a sigh, half in surrender and half in attempt to regain her composure, Shadow Weaver slides the lamp back across the table. “Try not to annihilate it, please.”

“As if.” Casta shakes her head, prodding her tools around seemingly randomly. After a few minutes of Shadow Weaver pretending not to watch her, miraculously, the previously dead bulb lights up—the younger woman looking triumphant. “Told you! I’m a regular mechanic.”

Shadow Weaver hums in acknowledgement, not willing to admit that was anything other than dumb luck. Still, she does find herself somewhat amused by the entire interaction, the most amused she’s been since she got here, so perhaps she was a little quick to completely dismiss Castaspella Oh.

* * *

Angella arrives at the scene of the crime with five minutes to spare, because while Spinnerella is her friend she definitely isn’t joking about redacting time for lateness, and Angella isn’t going to get this opportunity again.

The actual apartment is about half an hour away from where Angella lives, opposite sides of the city though under the same police jurisdiction, and does beg the question of why Micah never really met her in person despite the frequent letter exchange (a letter exchange that she personally thought was stupid, it’s not like their living in the 1800s anymore, but for whatever reason they both seemed to prefer it to just texting). It’s quite a nice building, but not as nice as Angella might have expected given her profession—though perhaps, she reasons, that’s due to the convenient proximity to the university.

“Spin,” Angella says, as she gets out of her car and swings her handbag over her shoulder. The policewoman inclines her head gently in acknowledgment. “Thanks for this.”

The woman shakes her head. “Don’t thank me.” She tightens her ponytail. “If I’m being honest, it’s least I could do after everything you did for Netossa. Just be in and out, okay? And if you take any pictures, they are not to go anywhere on the internet.”

“Of course.” Angella nods and follows the other woman into the building up to the appropriate floor, dropping her bag and everything except her phone outside. The police had questioned the neighbours about what happened, but no one had heard or seen anything suspicious that night, or at least that anyone spoke up about.

Spinnerella lets her into the appropriate flat and offers her a pair of plastic blue gloves. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

“Thank you.” Angella nods, taking the gloves and slipping them on as the other woman opens the door for her.

The door closes behind her, and Angella takes a moment to scan her new environment. The layout seems quite normal—there’s a large main space with a couch in one corner though no TV in front of it—instead, what seems to be hundreds upon hundreds of books which line two full walls and a small kitchenette area at the back, the scene of the infamous video.

The body itself has, of course, been removed but it’s still eerie to look at as Angella approaches that area. Mostly because it just looks so _normal—_ there’s a purple metal waterbottle on the side and a drying rack by the sink that has couple of wine glasses on it still out, a chopping board on the other side of the counter with knife marks all over it. It looks like any other kitchen. This is a place where a normal woman lived and worked, domestically—and now it’s a murder crime scene.

Angella sighs. It just makes _no sense._

She sifts back over to the other side of the apartment, where she finds three open doors. The first leads to a bathroom which, again, is pretty standard—there’s a tub with a showerhead, sink and toilet—the only thing of note to Angella is a bottle of princess shampoo which is sat up on the side, presumably belonging to the daughters which are currently God knows where with their father.

The lawyer moves onto Shadow Weaver’s bedroom which has a dark ambiance despite the blind being up and is admittedly quite tasteful. Angella frowns and looks around, opening the drawer of the nightstand to find…well, not a lot. There’s a glasses case, a set of tangled earplugs and a box of tissues, and aside from a half-read copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ on top that’s it.

Angella tries to pull out the second draw underneath it but finds it locked. There’s no hole for a key so she imagines it opens another way, and sure enough finds a tab to yank it open underneath, though can’t say doing so was worth the effort.

Inside she finds a few loose condom packets, a purple silicon dildo and harness, a pair of handcuffs and a long strand of black rope—Angella shuts that draw quite quickly.

She then blinks, and opens it again, looking at the dildo. That’s something typically used by women with other women, and while it’s not impossible that her husband has a rather, uh, niche taste, the implication here is that Shadow Weaver was cheating on him, with a mixture of men and women from the looks of it. Angella closes the draw again though does make a mental note of it.

While she’s crouched down, she notices that the bed also has a draw of sorts underneath it so slides it out and smiles as she finds one of the things she came here looking for—photo albums. She picks up the first one—a little scandalised that, unlike her own ones at home, they aren’t dated—and opens it up.

The first picture of a young Micah and Shadow Weaver standing at some sort of dig site isn’t what she’s looking for, but she does spare a second to look at it because it’s very sweet. They don’t have this one at home so for a split second she wonders if she could snatch it but decides ultimately that might be exploiting Spinnerella’s favour a bit too much so just takes a picture on her phone of it instead.

That album is just full of things from the era she and Micah were together it seems, so Angella pulls another one out—this time the first picture is of a little blonde haired girl who looks to be no more than two years old playing on what she recognises as the floor of the main area, only in this picture there is a selection of toys scattered around her. She flips through and finds that’s is mostly pictures of the blonde girl, though there’s a few of her holding a slightly younger, slightly darker skinned child—presumably the younger sister, Catra.

And at the end Angella finds what she was looking for, a picture of the entire family together standing on the apartment’s balcony—or, more specifically, a shot of Horde Prime’s face that she couldn’t find on the internet. She pulls out her phone and snaps a photo of it, smiling as she prepares to stand and move on when she looks back at it and feels her eyes widen.

Her first big case when she worked for the prosecution had been a big one, it’s what got her the notoriety she needed to start her own firm, since she put away Hordak who was high up in an infamous drug ring. It was assumed—or, the police were happy to accept—that Hordak was the leader but Angella personally believed there was more going on than there seemed.

She remembers standing in that courtroom like she remembers Glimmer’s birth, like she remembers marrying Micah, like she remembers graduating from university. It was one of the standout moments in her life and she remembers every second in crystal clear detail.

And she remembers most of all, as she squints at the photo, _Horde Prime’s face_ being in the accused’s seat.

It was known that Hordak had brothers who were also involved with that particular ring, but they were never caught, though now…

Angella swallows and shoots to her feet. If this Horde Prime really is one of Hordak’s brothers, then she may be dealing with a lot more than she signed up for—but more importantly, if he has Shadow Weaver’s children with him, then they are most certainly not safe.

There’s one last room to investigate, and she is once again surprised to see quite how normal the children’s room seems. There are two beds on either side of the room, one with the name Catra and the other Adora above them in crimson lettering. One, Adora’s, has a shelf of what seem to be basketball trophies above it and some waxy drawings done in crayon of, presumably, her and her sister underneath while the other looks significantly more sparse except for a rather large bug net that’s tucked at the bed’s side and a lego sculpture of a spaceship on the bedside table.

Angella picks the spaceship and blows the thin layer of dust that’s accumulated on it off—Shadow Weaver wasn’t lying when she said the girls haven’t been here in a while.

The lawyer bites her lip and puts the toy down, wondering how she’s going to deal with this next.

* * *

Shadow Weaver is someone who values cleanliness over most other things. Before all of this, she used to scrub her skin raw every night before sleeping and again in the morning because the thought of being dirty makes her skin itch a little, but she had accepted that this level of control wouldn’t be accessible in prison, so has prepared herself to make some changes.

In light of this, she showers either first thing in the morning, or last thing at night when most of the other inmates are too tired from the day to get up and move but early enough that she’s not yet restricted back to her cell.

To her relief tonight it’s mostly empty, so takes her soap and heads to the furthest stall from the door and turns the water on, dropping and folding her towel off to the side. The water’s freezing but she’s learnt the hard way that it’s not going to heat up by now, so braves the cold quickly with a hiss of discomfort.

Back home her showers would normally take up to about half an hour since she has a _lot_ of hair, and she liked to take her time conditioning and brushing it all out but she does not have the luxury of that kind of privacy here, so tends to sort the mangled mess that is her hair once she gets back to her cell. Casta has asked twice to brush it for her now, but Shadow Weaver doesn’t trust anyone else with it, especially not her jarring cellmate.

Despite the fear of someone walking in and the icy temperature, the feeling of the water on her skin is almost orgasmic and Shadow Weaver closes her eyes for a second, just taking it in, before she starts to soap up her hair.

She’s about halfway done when the most vexing whistling she’s ever heard enters the bathroom.

It’s something she’d have been able to ignore if it weren’t heading right in her direction.

She turns her head and supresses a yelp as a stark naked Casta stands before her, making no effort whatsoever to cover herself, with a shockingly neutral expression. Shadow Weaver scrambles to cover her chest and private parts. “Go away!”

“You’re in my favourite stall, I figured I’d wait.” Casta says as if that’s an adequate explanation.

“Wait _elsewhere._ Stop looking at me!”

“Alright, _prude._ ” She rather unhelpfully turns around with gives Shadow Weaver full view of her ass. The older woman tries to wish away the blush on her cheeks and rinses all the soap off her as quickly as possible. “Why are you so wound up?”

Shadow Weaver scoffs and scrambles out of the stall to find her towel, too flustered to be angry. “Do you make it your mission to aggravate me?”

“ _I’m_ not ashamed of my body, that’s all.” Casta says, stepping in the shower after her. “I’m fucking hot, you know.”

Shadow Weaver walks far enough away that she won’t be able to see Casta naked anymore, but still close enough that the other woman can hear her. “There are seven other stalls! _Seven!_ You could have gone in any one of them _!”_

“But _this one_ is my favourite.” Casta repeats, opening her mouth to the spray of the shower head and then spitting the water back out next to her. Shadow Weaver grimaces at the sight.

“And why is that, hmm?”

The look Casta gives her it _far_ too sensual for Shadow Weaver’s liking. “Because where else am I going to find a hot, naked middle-aged woman to think about before I go to sleep?”

Shadow Weaver’s eyes widen, and she feels her hand clench around the soap bar in her hand. She glances towards it, Casta’s smirk taunting her from the stall, and chucks the soap at the younger woman’s head with considerable force, hitting her target right on the forehead.

The younger woman shrieks and Shadow Weaver evacuates the bathroom with a smirk of slight pride.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shadow weaver gets a few new propositions. casta gets a visit from her brother.

The general mood of the prison, as it is every Saturday, Shadow Weaver learns, is very upbeat. Getting a visitor from the outside is always going to be good, she supposes, though she personally is dreading it since she knows her damned competent lawyer is going to be there.

Casta’s been chirping excitedly all morning because her brother is coming but Shadow Weaver’s mostly tuned that out in favour of her current book—she found a yellowed copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in the library and only got halfway before she was incarcerated, so is content to finish it now. Fortunately, the lack of attention she gave to her cellmate eventually caused her to get bored and leave.

Once she’s gone, Shadow Weaver sets the open book down on her lap, exhales forcefully through her nose and stares at the wall beside her. Casta has forgiven her for the soap incident a two days ago—an incident that was _thoroughly deserved,_ and Shadow Weaver was not asking for forgiveness—but the scene still plays vividly in her mind no matter how she wants to banish it.

For all the idiotic things the younger woman says, she is right about one thing—she _is_ fucking hot, damnit.

Shadow Weaver groans and falls back against her pillow. She didn’t _ask_ for any of this, she’d almost prefer some sort of gang activity in the prison that incessant flirting that’s starting to work because gangs she can deal with—that kind of petty warfare she can tolerate—but an annoying, pretty, mildly intelligent woman like Casta? That’s one of her biggest weaknesses.

She rolls over and presses her face into the pillow. If she closes her eyes tight enough, she can almost picture herself back home a few years ago when everything was so peaceful, when her children were littler, and she had deluded herself into thinking she had some semblance of control. Shadow Weaver can still practically _hear_ Adora’s little out of tune voice singing along with the cartoons on TV, feel Catra’s incessant tugging on her skirt to be picked up, see the drawings they would make her for Mother’s Day.

It’s easier not to think about them, generally, but sometimes it’s impossible. Shadow Weaver banishes their faces from her mind and pushes herself back up into a sitting position, quietly wondering if it’s worth picking her book back up.

“Out in the common room, Weaver.” She turns to see one of the guards—Juliet—pointing to the accumulation of tables in the middle of the block. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here past 9 o’clock.”

Shadow Weaver blinks. _Is it nine already?_ She’s got an hour before visitation starts, though it goes on until 3 so the lawyer could show up any time. Nodding, Shadow Weaver climbs down off her bunk and leaves the room, scanning the common area for somewhere to sit. Casta is in an animated conversation with a group of other inmates, and while her cellmate aside Shadow Weaver hasn’t really spoken to anyone else in the block she also has no desire to get involved with that, so sits herself down at the end of a bench that has a couple of other women in it, muttering to each other quietly.

They don’t look up as she sits which is a relief, but she cringes when, after a moment, one of the pair shuffles up to sit at her side. She raises an eyebrow, emitting a dangerous air. “Yes?”

The other woman is unphased. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

Shadow Weaver narrows her eyes. “It’s been a couple of weeks now.”

“So new.” The woman cocks her head to the side ever so slightly. “I probably should have introduced myself by now, but I guess you’re not the normal type of girl we get in here, so—” She shrugs and shakes her head. “I’m Mara. Mara Grayskull.”

Shadow Weaver looks at the hand offered to her for a moment and then looks back up without taking it. “Can I help you, Mara Grayskull?”

“Maybe.” She says, lowering her hand back to her lap. “But I guess if you’re Casta’s girl you can’t be that stupid.”

“How do you—I’m not _Casta’s girl._ ”

“You still haven’t told me your name, and I can see it’s—” She squints at Shadow Weaver’s nametag. “D. Weaver, but I prefer first names. More friendly, you know?”

“Hmm.” Shadow Weaver crosses her arms. “Most people call be Shadow Weaver.”

She almost expects the same kind of ‘supervillain’ response from Mara as Casta gave, but the other woman simply nods. “Alright, _Shadow Weaver._ ” She says. “I need your hole.”

Shadow Weaver frowns, crossing her legs. “You need my _what?”_

“The hole in your cell’s wall, where that rat Casta likes comes through.” Mara supplies. “Let me keep some of my…assets there, and I’ll owe you a favour.”

“Why not go straight to Casta?” Shadow Weaver asks.

Mara clicks her tongue. “Casta’s sweet but she’s not exactly the most reliable. I’m also pretty sure she’s the most unstable person in this prison, and I don’t exactly want my livelihood in the hands of someone who burnt twenty people alive in one go.”

Shadow Weaver sucks in a breath. She didn’t even _believe_ Casta when she told her crime was arson—figured it was something more drug related, or maybe theft—and she still isn’t sure she believes Mara either but can’t think of much reason the other woman would have to lie. She turns around and looks at Casta’s bubbly face, laughing with some other women about something or the other, and then looks back at Mara. “How do you know that?”

Mara shrugs and looks back at the other woman at the table who has been carefully observing the entire interaction. “I’ve got my sources.”

“What else do you know?” Shadow Weaver asks.

“Who are you asking about?” Mara raises an eyebrow.

“Me.”

“I know why you’re here, if that’s what you want to know.” Mara says. “And I think you’re more reliable than Casta. So, I’ll ask you again, will you help me out?”

Shadow Weaver considers it. She doesn’t really have any reason to help this woman she’s just met and whatever she wants to hide in the rat’s hole can’t be good, but then again choosing not to do so might make her an enemy and that’s the opposite of what she wants. Besides, if what she just heard about Casta is true, then perhaps she really should consider widening her circle.

“Can I think about it?”

“Yeah, but not for long.” Mara says. “I’ll come see you when visitation is over.”

Shadow Weaver nods and watches with narrowed eyes as Mara slides back to the other side of the table, the other woman muttering something she can’t make out to her once she gets there. The ex-professor sighs, bringing her hands up to massage her temples to try and ward away the headache she can feel coming.

* * *

It’s only once a month that her brother comes to see her, so Casta is practically skipping excitedly to the visitation room. She still wishes he would bring Glimmer with him, but every time she asks, he makes up some feeble excuse which in her head translates to the fact that Angella simply doesn’t want her to see her niece. Still, there’s no point getting angry thinking about that, since her brother is here and today is a _good_ day.

She waves at him through the glass as the prisoners with visitors filter into the room—she knows that Shadow Weaver’s lawyer arrived at pretty much the same time, but because it’s a meeting about her case she gets to have it in a private room. Micah grins and waves back, his hair up in a knot at the back of head.

As is permitted, Casta gives him the tightest hug she can manage as she gets to the table. “I missed you so, _so_ much!” She exclaims.

Micah laughs. “I missed you too, Casta.”

“That’s enough, Oh.” The guard says, and Casta reluctantly pulls away sticking her tongue out in annoyance. Micah chuckles again and shakes his head.

Casta sits down in the chair opposite her brother’s and crosses her arms, sitting forward eagerly. “So, what’s been happening? Tell me _everything,_ I want to know everything!”

“Not much, to be honest, Cas.” Micah says. “Glimmer had her dance recital a few weeks ago, she was great, you would have loved it. She was even wearing the purple tutu, the one you had as a kid we passed down, instead of the pink ones they’re _supposed_ to wear. She’s stubborn when she wants to be, you know,” That comment makes Casta’s smile grow ever wider. “Oh—and I got a vasectomy, so that’s fun.”

Casta gasps. “Did Angella make you?”

“No, of course not—she, _we,_ agreed we don’t want any more kids, so it seemed responsible.” He says.

Casta pouts. “That’s not _fair_ , I was hoping you’d have lots more babies so I could live through you, and maybe I could convince Angella to let the delinquent child actually come and see me. It’s like _I_ can have any in here…but I suppose Glimmer’s sweet enough to make up for it. I only wish I could see…” She trails off, biting her lip. She doesn’t like Micah’s pitying look on her. “Never mind. I actually got a new cellmate.”

“Oh?” He perks up at the change of subject. “How is she?”

“She’s a bit of a bitch.” Casta says. “But…she’s kind of really good looking too, so who knows what could happen. And I think the bitchiness is just a layer. She seems like she has a lot of them—she’s an onion! Like in Shrek.”

Micah smiles. “Of _course,_ that’s the reference you use.”

“Are there any better ones?” Casta raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, I’m pretty she’s into me though is kind of in denial right now, so my plan is we’ll get together by the end of the month.” She smiles, leaning into her hand and looking up dreamily. “I’ve always wanted a prison wife.”

“Be careful, Cas. There are all sorts of weirdos in here.” Micah tells her. “You don’t know what she did.”

Casta smiles sadly and puts a hand over Micah’s. “It’s sweet how you always seem to forget I’m in here for a reason, too.”

“I still think it’s bullshit that they—”

“Hey.” Casta runs her thumb over his knuckles comfortingly. “I know you want to protect me from the big bad world but…I’m okay here, I really am. There’s no point getting upset about things in the past we can’t control.”

“It’s just hard, you know? To live my life knowing my baby sister is stuck here, that you’re not with me. That you’re not free.” He looks down. “I _miss_ you. We were always…sometimes I still forget that I can’t just come over and have ddukbokki with you and watch those stupid cartoons. You always made it better than me.”

“It’s the only thing I _can_ make. Mum drilled it into me.”

“It’s still impressive.” Micah says.

“You could visit more often, if you like.”

He looks slightly pained at that comment. “I wish I could. But with Glimmer, you know. Things are tricky.”

Inwardly, Casta sighs. “I guess.” It’s a little difficult to feel sorry for her brother even though he is obviously upset about her being locked up since, while he may indeed miss her a lot, he’s still got a while life out there—he’s still got his wife and his daughter, all his friends and extended family, a life and a career he jump back into should he desire it.

Casta has…nothing. Nothing except petty games with her cellmate and a rat who comes to see her a few times a week.

And the limited contact she does have with her loved ones is all monitored and controlled by both the state and her sister-in-law. She makes an active effort to keep positive most of the time, mostly because if she doesn’t she knows she’s lose herself in her own head, and as much as loves to see her brother the reminder of everything she’s missing always stings a little too.

“Oh, well.” Casta clears her throat. “Tell me what you’re going to do for Glim’s birthday? Princess party, again?”

* * *

Shadow Weaver’s lawyer, Angella Moon if she remembers correctly, doesn’t even look up as Shadow Weaver is let into the room. Her hair is up in a tight high ponytail, one hand playing with a dangling pearl earring—casual in a way one might be if they were in an office rather than a prison—the other poised to flip a piece of paper she seems to be reading off of.

The prisoner admires that a little.

She sits down opposite the other woman, lips pressed together in impatience as the lawyer still doesn’t look up, seemingly finishing whatever sentence she’s reading.

Shadow Weaver clears her throat, and Angella finally looks up.

“Good morning.” Angella says, sifting through her papers again. “How are you feeling today?”

“Fine.” Shadow Weaver tilts her trying, trying to get a read of Angella’s impassive expression. “And you?”

“I’ve been better.” Angella replies, pulling a sheet from her pile and slipping it in front of Shadow Weaver. “Just to start, can you please clarify for me the identities of the people in this photo?”

Shadow Weaver sucks in a breath at the sight of it and looks up at her lawyer angrily. “Where did you get this?” She hisses.

“That doesn’t matter. Just answer the question, I’m trying to _help_ you.”

The woman in orange grits her teeth, letting her eyes fall back to the photo in front of her. She sees herself a few years ago, her children and Horde Prime standing on the balcony connected to her apartment. It was Adora’s birthday and little girl had wanted a photo with everyone so they grudgingly all posed—you can tell it’s grudgingly since Adora’s the only one smiling—and she’s got Catra on her hip since the girl wouldn’t stand still.

She sucks in a breath and tears her eyes away. “That’s my family.” She says. “My daughters and my husband.” She flips the piece of paper over.

“Thank you.” Angella says, taking the paper back and replacing it with another picture. This one, Shadow Weaver notes, is not her own—it’s a mugshot of someone who looks remarkably like her husband. “And this one?”

Shadow Weaver decides to test the waters. “He looks quite a lot like Prime, doesn’t he?”

“Do you know him?”

Shadow Weaver rolls her shoulders back. “I believe I may know _of_ him. Am I right to say this is Hordak?”

“Yes.” Angella says. “And is he not brother to your husband?”

“I know little of Prime’s family.” Shadow Weaver says. “But I do know that he had a brother in prison, it was quite a big case at the time.”

“And you’re aware that Hordak was apart of a big crime family?”

Shadow Weaver narrows her eyes. “That’s quite a big accusation to make. I know nothing of it.”

“There is too much evidence to get you off this case. And I think you knew that when you committed the crime.” Angella states bluntly. “For whatever reason I have yet to comprehend you _need_ to be here. With the state of your case right now you’ll get 20 years if you’re lucky, 25 without parole if you’re unlucky. _But,”_ She points her finger firmly to the photo on the table. “Offer useful information to the authorities about this ring, and you could get you’re sentence halved at the very least.”

“And what makes you think I know anything of use?”

“Because it’s the only thing that makes sense to me.” Angella says. “An archaeology professor marries someone in a known crime family and commits a horrific murder just over half a decade later? That can’t be a coincidence.”

Shadow Weaver is of the opinion that Micah has made a lot of questionable decisions in his life but choosing this woman as his wife may be one of the better ones. She’s proving to be a complete nuisance for Shadow Weaver but that’s not to say she’s _very_ clever. The prisoner mentally weighs her options, running her tongue over her lips. “Even if I did know something, I couldn’t tell the police.”

Angella raises an eyebrow. “Why not?”

Shadow Weaver sighs, running a shaky hand through her hair. “You’re not stupid. Figure it out.”

“That’s not my job. My job is to get you as good of a sentence as I can.”

“Then why are you digging around my apartment?” Shadow Weaver fires back. “That’s not your job either, is it, Mrs Moon?”

Angella narrows her eyes and starts to think. “I think you’re scared of something, probably to do with your children, and that’s why you don’t want to say anything—that’s not difficult to deduce—but that leaves me with the question of why you would just kill your boss in the first place, if you’re first priority is to protect them. You tried to make it look like a crime of passion, but I don’t believe it—I’ve seen enough cases like it to know the difference. You probably do have a temper, we all do sometimes, it could even be a bad one, but you do also have _control—_ you knew exactly what you were doing and why, and now you’re wallowing in self-pity rather than taking the help that’s being handed to you on a silver platter.”

“I didn’t _ask for this!”_ Shadow Weaver exclaims, leaning forward. “You act like I _want_ to be here—you seem to lack the ability to grasp the concept that _I don’t have a choice._ ”

“You always have a choice.” Angella’s tone has an edge that isn’t calm anymore. “I’m here because Micah believes you incapable of what you’re accused. I disagree, my husband is kind and sweet but holds you on such a pedestal that he fails to see quite how dark some parts of you seem to be—but I also don’t like the thought of your daughters being left alone with Horde Prime, presumably under the premise of blackmail, and the best way you can help them is to give the police enough reason to hunt him down. I’ll ask you again, _do you know anything about the drug ring?”_

“Don’t you _dare_ presume to tell me the best way to protect my daughters.” Shadow Weaver snarls. “I am doing what I must.”

“Think about it. We’ve got some time.” Angella says, taking the photo and sliding it back onto her pile. “The best I can do is advise you, it’s your choice whether you want to ignore me or not. We’ll talk again nearer to your court date.”

She stands to leave when something suddenly tugs at Shadow Weaver’s heart and she finds herself speaking before she can stop herself. “Is…How is Micah?”

Angella freezes, genuinely surprised, and turns around slowly. “He’s had better days, I’m sure.”

Shadow Weaver smiles sadly. “Can you just…can you tell him I say thank you?”

“The best way you can thank him is by taking my advice.” Angella says. “And tell him yourself. He’s here—or, in the general visitation room. I’ll go find him and ask if he wants to talk to you, if you like.”

Shadow Weaver blinks in surprise. “Why is he here?”

“To visit.”

“To visit _who?”_ Shadow Weaver doesn’t remember Micah ever telling her he had a relative in prison but supposes that’s not the sort of thing people generally mention to their teachers. Angella looks at for a long moment and, concluding that it’s a big prison and they probably haven’t interacted, says: “His sister. Castaspella.”

Shadow Weaver’s eyes widen in shock. “ _Castaspella_ is his—of _course_ Castaspella is his sister.” She groans and puts her head in her hands. She should have put two and two together when she heard Casta’s surname—Oh—but she had almost forgotten that used to be Micah’s too since he took Moon when he married Angella. There’s a slight family resemblance there, too, and—

_Fuck._

“Micah said you didn’t know each other.” Angella says, raising an eyebrow.

“We didn’t.” Shadow Weaver says, standing up. “But, well, we’ve become acquainted you could say.” She sighs. “I’ll see you when I see you, Mrs Moon.”

“And I you.” They go their separate ways, Shadow Weaver allowing herself a glimmer of happiness at the thought of seeing Micah.

* * *

Casta feels a little…out of it when she is forced to leave Micah. It’s like eating a ton of sugar and then being left with a crash—empty and a little sick, but she knows she’ll look forward to it again anyway.

She gets some paper and a pen and sits down at a table by herself, putting the cap in her mouth to chew on as she folds it in half, smoothing the fold out and then opening it back out. Casta starts to trace the shapes of two bodies hugging on the front, one an adult and the other a child before layering on some detail, hoping what she remembers her niece looking like is still semi-accurate.

It’s unclear how long she spends working on the front of the paper, and after a while she’s interrupted by her cellmate sitting down opposite her while she’s shading her hair. She looks up. “Hey, Weaver.” She blinks. “You took a while.”

“I spoke to Micah.”

Casta frowns. “ _My_ Micah?”

“I didn’t realise you were Micah’s sister. I was his archaeology professor and, well…he’s my friend.” She says. “I probably should have noticed the resemblance.”

“Wow.” Casta puts her pen down. “I _knew_ the name Weaver sounded familiar. It’s a small world, huh?”

Shadow Weaver nods. “Your brother is very kind.”

Casta smiles gently. “Yeah.”

“And I agree that your sister in law is a bitch.” Shadow Weaver continues. “She’s my lawyer.”

“How’d you get the cash for that?” Casta looks at her in surprise. “She wouldn’t even do _my_ case.”

“Micah, I suppose. I didn’t ask for her.” Shadow Weaver says. “What are you drawing?”

“Oh, yeah.” Casta blushes a little and flips the card to show her cellmate. “It’s a drawing of me and my niece. I’m making her a card. It’s her birthday in a few weeks and I can’t get her anything properly, so…” She trails off, pulling the card back towards her, but Shadow Weaver puts her hand on the paper to stop her.

“You’re very good.” The older woman runs her finger gently over the pen, careful not to smudge it.

“You think?”

Shadow Weaver nods. “Yes. It’s a cartoon but it really looks like you. Was this your job before…well, this?”

Casta shakes her head. “Oh, god, no. I would have _loved_ to study art, but I was already the family disappointment as it was, with Micah having his PhD and my parents being doctors, so never really had the choice. I failed to get into med school, so my sister-in-law got me into a law course last minute, but I dropped out ‘cause…well, law _sucks._ ”

“Law does suck.” Shadow Weaver agrees.

“But it’s not all bad, I guess.” Casta looks up though her eyes can’t quite seem to focus on anything. “I mean, no ones gonna be a better disappointment than me now, right?”

Shadow Weaver forces a smile. “I suppose not. Actually, there was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“You want to sleep in my bunk with me?”

She rolls her eyes. “ _No._ It’s about something that Mara spoke to me about earlier.”

“Mara?” Casta frowns. “We probably shouldn’t talk about that here.” She slides her card into the back of her trousers in lieu of any pockets and grabs Shadow Weaver’s hand, dragging her all the way back to the showers and then into the stall at the end. “What did she say?”

“She wants to use the rat hole.” Shadow Weaver says. “To hide her ‘assets’. I assume narcotics.”

“No, she means drugs, Shadow Weaver.”

“Narcotics _are_ dru—never mind.” She shakes her head. “I thought it best to ask you before I said yes.”

“It’s probably a—” The sound of footsteps interrupts them, and a group of people walk into the bathroom. The pair wait for a few moments, but it sounds like they have no intention of leaving so Casta bites her lip. “We need to get rid of them.”

“How?”

Casta looks up in thought, and you can see the exact moment her expression changes suggesting she’s thought of something. “Trust me?”

Shadow Weaver doesn’t trust her very much at all but nods anyway.

Out of nowhere, Casta lets out a deep, guttural moan.

“Oh, yes!” She gasps. “ _Harder! Shadow Weaver, faster please!”_

The conversation reaches a lull and Shadow Weaver thinks she’s going to implode; she stares at her cellmate wide-eyed. Casta rolls her eyes and gestures for Shadow Weaver to join in, but the older woman can only stare in shock.

“Right there, _yes,_ don’t stop!” Casta screams louder and yanks a chunk of Shadow Weaver’s hair to make her cry out too. “ _Fuck!”_

The shuffle of obviously uncomfortable footsteps start to evacuate the bathroom, but Casta keeps going for good measure. “I’m almost there, _yes, YES!”_

“You can stop now!” Shadow Weaver hisses.

“Are you sure?”

“ _Yes.”_

Casta gives her a toothy grin. “Well, back to Mara, I see it going one of two ways. If you want Mara to owe you a favour it’s always good, but then again if one of the guards finds drugs in our cell, she won’t help you out.”

“And if I say no?”

“You might wanna steer clear of Light Hope.”

“Light Hope?”

“Mara’s wife.” Casta says. “She…has pretty strong fists.”

Shadow Weaver sighs. “Of course.” She thinks about what Mara had said about Casta, about how she had burned twenty people alive, and wonders now whether Casta’s really a good person to ask about this. “There—” She pauses, biting her lip. “There was something else Mara said. About you.”

Casta raises an eyebrow. “About me?”

The older woman takes a deep breath.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shadow weaver finds out some more about her cellmate's past.

“Okay,” Micah moves to rest on his knees on the floor opposite his daughter, his mouth hanging open. “Try and get it in from there.”

Glimmer’s expression becomes very determined and she narrows her eyes before throwing a grape about three feet across the room that hits her father’s eyes rather than getting it in his mouth. Her expression falls and she lets out a little groan of disappointment. Micah lets the grape fall to the ground and smiles at her.

“Don’t give up, Glim, give it another try.”

“Okay.” Glimmer plucks another grape off the vine on the table and sticks her tongue out in her concentration this time, throwing the fruit with a little less force and successfully getting into her father’s mouth. “Yes! I did it!”

Micah chews and grins. “Yes you did, that’s my girl!” He leans forward and gives her a high five. “Now try again from a little further back.”

“As much as I hate to put a stop to this,” Angella walks into the room, leaning against the doorframe. “We do need to leave some grapes for lunch tomorrow, Glimmer.”

The little girl huffs in annoyance. “But _Mum—”_

“A couple more won’t hurt, Angie.” Micah smiles up at her. “Besides, I’m teaching her life skills here, you can’t deny it.”

Angella probably could deny it quite vehemently but doesn’t want to come off like she’s no fun, so inclines her head. “A few more, then. But save enough for lunch tomorrow otherwise you’re getting orange slices.”

“Not orange slices, they make my hands all sticky!” Glimmer cries, looking up to her mother wide eyed. “We can only do a couple more Daddy, I’m sorry!”

Micah chuckles. “That’s alright. It’s getting close to your bedtime anyway.”

Glimmer reaffirms her stance, taking another step back, and fires another grape at her father. Angella watches from her spot at the door, mind drifting as she thinks of the two children who are currently with Horde Prime, the two children of age with her own child.

Catra, the biological daughter, she now realises, doesn’t look much like either of her parents. Her hair is dark but not as dark as her mother’s, she seems to have some sort of heterochromia in her eyes unlike the green eyes of both her parents. She thinks back to the locked draw in Shadow Weaver’s room and wonders absently whether the girl’s parentage matches up with the marriage as one might expect.

After a little longer they manage to coax Glimmer to bed with minimal protests, which is good, and then return to the dining room together—Angella going to the kitchen to pull a bottle of wine and two glasses out from the cabinet. Micah sits down, expression crossed and deep in thought. “Is something bothering you, love?” She asks, striding over to sit beside him.

“Yes,” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about Casta a lot.”

Angella gives him a sympathetic look and gently puts her hand over his. “I know it’s hard not having her around.”

“It’s just some of the things she said today.” He sighs. “And Shadow Weaver too, I guess. Beyond the obviously scarring knowledge that my sister wants to have sex with my teacher.”

Angella snorts. “That sounds about right.”

Micah frowns, clearly unamused. “You don’t have to be so…rude to her, you know. She asked about Glimmer again, and…I think it would be good for both of them if I bring her with me next time. You know Glimmer misses her, and I honestly think it would mean the world to Cas.”

“Absolutely not.” Angella shakes her head and pulls her hand away, pouring the wine. “I know that Casta misses her, but a prison is no place for a child.”

“She’s _family,_ Angie.”

“And she’s a danger to society, Micah, or have you forgotten that? You ask why I’m ‘rude’ to her, but always seem to magically forget that she’s got a life sentence, as if somehow _I’m_ the bad guy. I know she’s your sister, and I know she loves— _loved_ —Glimmer but I just don’t feel comfortable letting my daughter be around that kind of influence. I’m sorry, but I’m not going to change my mind.”

“But she didn’t do it!” Micah’s face creases up in annoyance.

“She confessed, Micah!”

“Because she was in _shock,_ and she was trying to protect her friend. You _know_ Casta, you know she couldn’t hurt a fly, that she—” He sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s not have this argument again. We’ve had it too many times to ever reach any sort of agreement.”

“Yes, no point in beating a dead horse.” Angella nods, taking a sip of her wine. There’s a lull of mildly uncomfortable silence that she fills after a moment. “In other news, I think I might be getting somewhere with the Shadow Weaver case. And I think I might also have enough to get the police to hunt Horde Prime down.”

“You mean the stuff linking him with Hordak?”

She nods. “Yes. Spin had a look at it, and she thinks it’s worth pursuing, especially since he’s been ignoring all attempts at communication from the courts. Something clearly dodgy is happening there, I just know it.”

“Hmm.” He swallows a mouthful of wine. “I—I’m sorry. For what I said I just…feel a little useless right now. Everything seems to be just slowly rolling downhill.”

Angella softens and puts a hand gently on his cheek. “I know, darling. But I promise we’ll get through this, we always do.”

* * *

The older woman takes a deep breath and manages to maintain direct eye contact with Casta. “She told me some…details about why you’re here. About the fire. About the…casualties.”

Casta looks like she’s been punched in the gut and Shadow Weaver physically winces. “What did she—what did she tell you? Because I—how does she know about what I—what did she say?”

“She mentioned about 20 deaths.” Shadow Weaver says, her tone gentler. “And I…I understand murder, I suppose, to an extent since I myself am here for a reason but I, with _you,_ never imagined…”

Casta sucks in a deep breath and leans back against the shower wall, slowly sliding down so she’s sitting on the grimy floor. “And I guess you want to ditch me now, huh? Because I’m psycho.”

“Is it true?”

“I…yes. And no. I…I’m not sure, to be honest.” She brings a hand to cover up part of her face. “I’ve haven’t spoken about it since my trial. It’s easier not to think about it, you know? Easier to…pretend I just torched some buildings, to pretend I’m just…I don’t know. A quirky Firestarter? It sounds stupid but it’s just easier.”

Hesitantly, Shadow Weaver moves to sit next to her. “Was it…that bad?”

Casta’s bottom lip trembles and she covers her face with her hands while nodding gently. “ _Yes.”_ She chokes out.

Shadow Weaver’s whole body stiffens up and she isn’t sure what to say. She thinks of Norwyn, of his eyes as she stole the life from them, as she licked his blood from her claws and stabbed him _again and again and again_ and truly cannot muster any sort of regret, or sadness. That’s not to say she took any joy in the act either, it’s not something she recalls with any sort of emotion.

Perhaps she won’t be very useful as a source of comfort.

“Do you…” Shadow Weaver starts, trailing off in uncertainty. “Do you think it would help to talk about it?”

Casta snorts but it’s not in amusement, looking up to the older woman with an almost pained expression. “You know, Micah always says that. Tried to get me and Angella to ‘talk about our feelings’ so we’d stop being so hostile, but it never works. Did he learn that from you?”

“Decidedly not.” Shadow Weaver says. “I’ve never been the most—the best with, uh, this sort of thing. But Micah tends to be right about most things concerning feelings so…if you’d like to talk about it, I’m here.”

The younger woman regards her for a long moment, as if trying to figure out whether Shadow Weaver is someone she can trust enough to share with, and after a moment she seems to concede that she is. If anything, Shadow Weaver does admire that since she herself would be much more hesitant especially since Casta hasn’t gotten a word out of her about why she’s here.

“It’s…when I think about it’s like I’m watching it in third person. Like it’s a scene from a show, like it wasn’t…real.” Casta says. “I was with my friend—we were both drop outs of law school and we’d been working in retail for a few years so not exactly prime positions to do much—and we’d decided to go out to some party a friend of a friend was having.” Her hands clench and she looks down into her lap. “I was driving. It was an old truck, I’d got it second hand for fifty dollars from god knows where and I guess I should have figured there was something seriously wrong with the engine started fucking up so we had to pull over by this…I think it was a church, actually. There was some sort of A and A meeting going on inside.”

Shadow Weaver listens attentively, not saying a word, but being very clear that she’s paying attention. Whatever happens, she knows it doesn’t end well, and she feels very genuinely apprehensive.

“I’m not a mechanic so I don’t know what it was but the fuel was leaking and the engine was smoking so we knew we weren’t going anywhere. I probably should have called a mechanic but we were already kind of drunk so I didn’t—my friend had brought drinks with us in the back so we figured we’d just stay behind the church for the night and let the fuel leak out everywhere.” Casta swallows, tugging one of the loose strands of hair dropping down over her eyes. “It must have only been half an hour after we stopped, maybe forty five minutes, but my friend started smoking and the next thing I knew she was dancing around, and she fell in the gasoline and the cigarette—” The younger woman chokes and covers her mouth with her hand.

Her companion hesitantly puts her hand gently on Casta’s shoulder. “It wasn’t you?” She asks gently.

Casta shakes her head. “No, it wasn’t, _I’m sure it wasn’t me_. But my friend—she caught herself in the fire, and I tried to get her out as I could but she got these terrible burns all over her body and I couldn’t do anything I just—” Casta inhales deeply, trying to slow her breathing that was quickly speeding up. “The gasoline had seeped into the wood foundations of the building and trapped most of the people inside. No one was uninjured and…and twenty people died.” She swallows thickly. “And my friend she was—oh god, it was _horrible,_ she didn’t even look like _herself_ anymore and I couldn’t—I was so confused and I couldn’t let her go to prison as well, I couldn’t…”

She starts to sob again, leaning into Shadow Weaver’s grasp which surprises the older woman but she dares not refuse her. Instead, she gently wraps Casta in her arms and rubs her hand in gentle circles across her back like she used to when Catra and Adora would skin their knees or hit their heads.

“Shhh.” Shadow Weaver whispers. “It’s okay. You’re not there anymore. You’re here—which is admittedly not delightful but…you’re not alone.”

“And then—and then when I was in court, and everyone was testifying against me Micah just…he just _knew_ I didn’t do it. He never gave up on me, and he made Angella give me the best lawyer she had but I just felt like I couldn’t defend myself—I couldn’t let her suffer anymore, I couldn’t do _anything._ ” She clutches Shadow Weaver’s sleeve. “Angie believed I did it. It’s why she won’t let Glimmer see me. She thinks I’m a terrible influence and…I guess I don’t blame her.”

Shadow Weaver doesn’t expect herself to feel so guilty about even allowing herself to half believe that Casta had killed those people on purpose. She’s always prided herself on being a relatively good judge of character and had taken the nonchalance of her initial statement about arson perhaps a little too seriously…

She pulls Casta closer. “I’m…sorry.” It’s not a helpful statement. It’s just what people say in reference to something bad happening when they don’t know what else to say.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” The sound of the guard’s voice echoes through the bathroom. Casta quickly sits up and wipes her eyes, clearing her throat.

“We were having sex!” She exclaims.

“And she’s back.” Shadow Weaver mutters under her breath.

The guard groans. “Put your clothes back on and get out of here. I’m giving you both shots.”

They make some noises resembling scrambling to re-clothe themselves, Shadow Weaver mildly annoyed that this conversation means that now both the inmates and the guards are under the impression that she and Casta have sex in the showers but finds that, after everything she just heard, she can’t really hold it against her…friend? Is friend the right word? She certainly didn’t come here to make friends, but it seems like Casta is a little more than a cellmate at this point.

Friend will do.

* * *

“I’ll do it.” Shadow Weaver slides down into the seat beside Mara who is mid game of chess with Light Hope.

Mara raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nods. “Yes. I’m sure you’ll remember this.”

“Of course.” Mara moves one of her pawns forwards. “I’ll drop you my assets in a couple hours. Be in your cell.”

Shadow Weaver nods. “I will.”

The ex-professor pushes herself to her feet and walks away, seeing Mara whispering about her to her supposed wife in the corner of her eye. Light Hope says nothing in response. If anything it’s the quiet one that’s makes Shadow Weaver a little more unsettled—it’s obvious that Mara is the conductor of this entire orchestra of a prison but it begs the question of why she keeps Hope around at all if she contributes nothing. Shadow Weaver has learnt long enough that in the more unsavoury business, love means nothing when someone ceases to be useful.

That said, she’s not sure she actually wants to find out what Light Hope is useful for.

At that the sound of a rolling trolley comes in—the library worker coming around with the books for the cell this week—though what mildly intrigues Shadow Weaver is the big box of letters on the front of the cart. She raises an eyebrow but says nothing and starts to head back to where Casta is waiting for her in their cell though stops when her name is called, surprised.

“Weaver.” The woman on the trolley repeats, and she turns to face her. “I got two for you.”

Shadow Weaver blinks. “Really?”

The woman rolls her eyes. “ _Yes,_ really. Now come and get them or you’re not getting them at all.”

The ex-professor does as she’s told and retrieves the two letters. There is nothing extraordinary about them other than the fact that they are addressed to her. “Are they any for Castaspella? I’ll bring them over for her.”

She shakes her head. “Never is.”

A little confused by that comment but willing to ignore it in favour of worrying about her own mail, Shadow Weaver heads back to her cell. Casta, evidently feeling a lot better, perks up from her bunk once Shadow Weaver crosses the threshold.

“What did Mara say?”

“She’s still on board. I suppose only time will tell what happens with that.” Shadow Weaver doesn’t meet her eyes as she tries to recognise the handwriting on the front of the letters. Her cellmate looks up at her with an intrigued expression.

“You got mail?”

“Evidently.”

“Are you going to open them?”

Shadow Weaver stares at the envelopes and tries to carefully consider what might be inside. Her first thought is that is must be something to do with her lawyer but Angella seems close and hands on enough to come in person if she needs something—and besides, they do have access to phones too (not that Shadow Weaver ever uses them) if she couldn’t make it in person. Maybe it’s an old work colleague in lieu of any real friends, but part of her doubts any of them would feel much sympathy given that she murdered their boss.

(Absently, she wonders whether any of them are a little bit grateful since Norwyn was a _terrible_ boss but then again, given that they’ve probably seen his graphic dismembering on the internet, she doubts it.)

Any other sender she can imagine isn’t anything good, so Shadow Weaver clenches her fist and shakes her head. “No. It’s not going to be anything good.” She drops the paper on the toilet’s water tank and climbs up to her bunk, falling back against the stiff pillow.

Casta frowns and walks over, picking them back up. “Can I open them?”

Shadow Weaver’s eyes widen and she leans up. “Why?”

“It’s just a shame that someone put work into writing you something and that what they said will never be known.” She says. “If it’s something good then I’ll tell you, and if not, I won’t.”

“Or you could just not read them at all.” Shadow Weaver counters, though finds herself surprisingly unbothered. A week ago she would have been aggressively protective of those letters even if she has no intention of opening them at all but now, with Casta…

Well, she feels that she understands her cellmate now enough to know she would never hold anything that personal against her. And besides, if something amuses her for even just a little while…then the older woman is reluctant to deprive her of it. _“Please,_ Shadow Weaver?”

She groans and rolls her face back into the pillow. “ _Fine._ But if a relative has died or…I don’t know, my possessions are being collected by the state don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Okay!” Casta says excitedly, rolling back onto her bed and ripping open the first letter messily. There’s a pause as she presumably reads, and Shadow Weaver starts to feel herself fall asleep though is rudely awakened from an excited squeal below her.

“ _What?”_ Shadow Weaver rubs her eyes.

“These aren’t bad at all, Miss Grumpy.” Casta stands and passes the opened letters to Shadow Weaver. “They’re from your kids.”

Of all the sources the letters could have been from Shadow Weaver isn’t expecting that, and she feels herself be simultaneously drawn and repulsed by the letters. She _hates_ to think of her daughters for no reason other than it’s easier to live pretending they do not exist, that she has not had to leave them, and has never imagined they might have any sort of correspondence but…if Casta is right, then…

She snatches the letters back and looks at the first one which is written in spidery children’s scrawl that she recognises immediately as Adora’s.

_Dear Mummy,_

_I hope you’re having a nice holiday! Catra and me miss you so I drew a picture of us together on the back, and when you come see us we can draw one together! Daddy says if we behave ourselves you’ll come back soon so I’ve been extra good. I’m sorry if I was too naughty before, and that’s why we had to go._

_I love you to the moon and back again and then to Jupiter too because it’s even_ further _away,_

_Love, Adora xoxoxoxoxoxox_

Underneath is a questionable picture in glittery gel pens of an oblong Shadow Weaver holding hands with Adora (she can tell by the use of gold gel pen for her hair) and then Catra with the feral smile she inherited from Shadow Weaver herself on the other side. She may not be the next Da Vinci but Shadow Weaver has to admit that her daughter did capture that quite well.

“It’s adorable.” Casta says. “Glim used to draw me pictures like that—they always seem a lot better when it’s your kid, don’t they?”

The second letter is very similar though signed of by Catra, and significantly harder to read though Shadow Weaver deciphers the general message. They miss her, they’re waiting for her to come home.

Clearly, Horde Prime hasn’t told them anything. And if he’s allowed them to send letters to her, he wants her to know it too.

Casta is clearly looking at her for some sort of response but all she can do it sit and bite her lip in contemplation. _Why_ would he let them send letters to her? She scans over the words and again and can’t detect any sinister subtext or message behind them, nor any reason in particular why it would be important enough to send. Horde Prime is not one for sentimentalities, and never has been.

Could it be as simple as confirmation that they’re okay?

Casta frowns. “What’s wrong?”

Shadow Weaver exhales heavily. “I…don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand why your kids would sent you letters after having not seen you for ages?” Casta frowns. “Seems pretty straightforward to me.”

“We have very different family dynamics. Children can’t just send letters to prisons of their own volition, my husband will have let them and he will have let them for a _reason.”_ She sighs. “I just can’t figure out what that reason is.”

“Must everything be so ominous with you?”

Shadow Weaver drops the letters by her side. “Yes.”


End file.
